


Whipping Boy

by fightingfairywoman



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, D/s, F/M, Femdom, Fight Sex, Hate Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, S&M, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingfairywoman/pseuds/fightingfairywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm done being your whipping boy."</p><p>Yeah, right.</p><p>(Post-6x10, Wrecked.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whipping Boy

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm not joking about the PWP tag.)
> 
> This is my first time posting fic online in years and my first time ever writing het, so please be gentle!
> 
> Edit: I've realised that I somehow managed to combine two drafts while posting this, resulting in significant continuity errors. I plan to resolve this as quickly as possible by editing in the complete final draft, but it might take a few days, as I'm having computer troubles. Please bear with me and enjoy the jumbled-up version in the meantime!

_"I'm done being your whipping boy."_

 

 

\--

 

"I knew you'd be back for more," he smirked.

 

A knee to the solar plexus winded him, making her grin. He may not need oxygen to survive, but without air in his lungs Spike couldn't speak. She took the opportunity to bite his earlobe, clawing her fingers down his sides before running her hands back up under his arms to throw him bodily to the ground. Kneeling over him, she gripped a fistful of his black T-shirt, wound her other hand once more through his hair, and pulled them both upwards, letting go momentarily so she could use both hands to wrestle his shirt off. Once it had been cast aside, Buffy gripped Spike's jaw, vice-like, in one hand. He couldn't help grinning, exhilarated by the fight. She smacked him quite casually upside the head like a petulant child; then she dragged her thumbnail down hard past his collarbone to dig into the soft skin above his nipple, licking a stripe up the scratch and biting at his jaw. He gasped. _Funny how they still do that,_ she thought to herself, _when they don't actually need to breathe._ It must be a reflex.

 

"I believe whipping was mentioned," she said, one hand around his throat. She slid her knees apart to bring her body lower and ground her hips into his, their lips clashing hard enough to split the delicate skin. He brought up his hands to rake down her back, and when she moaned, he took advantage of the moment of distraction to slam a palm into her shoulder, flipping her over. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he said, pushing down on her chest with one hand while the other fiddled with his belt buckle. He smiled as he felt her breath heaving and paused to trail his fingers over her skin, hot and smooth.

 

It cost him. A punch to the sternum sent him flying backwards while Buffy leapt to her feet and aimed a kick at his ribs. He grabbed her ankle and tugged to pull her off-balance while he scrambled back to his feet. By the time he was upright again, she was back on the ground but leaning up on her elbows, hair half-covering her face. She kicked off one shoe and slid the sole of her foot under his jeans and up his calf, tickling the skin there. He grinned, panting (it seemed to be a reflex after all), and threw himself down on top of her.

 

"Don't look at me, whipping boy," she said breathlessly, leaning up to bite at his lower lip. He laughed, deep and throaty. She jerked her leg up to wrap around his body, letting her knee bash into his hipbone on the way, and pulled her hips up to crash into him. The semi-open belt buckle pressed sharply into her skin. She growled and rolled them over, pressing a searing kiss to his sternum and holding him down for long enough to undo his belt and zipper. When she felt him twitch under her, she bit down hard around his nipple, flickering her tongue over it and relishing the girly whimper it evoked from him.

 

"Oh, god, I fucking hate you," he hissed.

 

She clenched her jaw, making him whimper, and growled into his chest, "Mutual." He wheezed a laugh, gripping a fistful of hair tight enough to make her gasp, but then she pressed her lips together and began working her way downwards, yanking his pants down just enough to release his cock and making no effort to avoid scraping or catching anything on the way. She gripped him tightly, crossing the border from pleasure to pain, pinching whenever he started to sound like he was enjoying himself too much. "You are one fucked up creature," she whispered into the skin of his hip, licking a pattern over the bone and biting sharply for a second, eyes flicking back up in time to see him grimace.

 

A funny rhythmic noise distracted her from her work. She drew back, hands pinning his knees. "Are you _laughing_?" she said, her voice dangerous. "Are you fucking _laughing_ at me, you twisted little cadaver? It's not enough that you're a slut for pain, is it? You have to have even more wires crossed in that ugly, mutilated head of yours." When he tried to sit up, she shoved him back into the floor, head making a nasty smack against the concrete. "You dirty, soulless freak - "

 

Next thing Buffy knew, she was flipped onto her back, winded. Spike kneeled over her, eyes gleaming, giving her a moment to collect herself so she could fight back. She snickered under her breath and grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head to one side. It wasn't exactly a good vantage point for fighting, as she discovered when he punched her in the face. She responded with an immature but effective headbutt to the breastbone, knocking him backwards again. Leaping to her feet, she kicked his side to roll him onto his stomach, taking a moment to drink in his state of partial undress before dropping down to grind her hips against him. She reached around to feel his already-hard cock, giving it a rough squeeze and leaning over to bite his shoulder.

 

As he tried to push into her grip, she smacked him on the back of the head, withdrew her hand and grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head. "No touching yourself," she instructed, "and no humping the ground like a goddamn animal. Who's in charge here?" When he didn't respond, she smacked him again, hearing his nose make a satisfying crunch as it slammed into the ground. The wrist she'd let go started to inch back down, and she bit him again, pinching the sensitive skin on nape of his neck while she planted his hand firmly back. "Stay," she ordered.

 

"I'm not a bloody dog," he muttered, hips squirming.

 

She reached around again and worked her hand over his cock more gently than before, relishing the shudder that went through him. "Then why are you so ready to come when I tell you to?"

 

"Bit early for that yet," he said, sounding as offended as a person can when they're willingly being beaten up half-naked.

 

"Well, I haven't told you to yet, have I?" she said, smacking him on the ass this time. It was more satisfying than she'd expected. Not like angry punches or tactical kicks, where the intention was to actually fight; this was a message. A chastisement. _Discipline_. She smirked at the image of Spike being trained like a pet, but the image of him handcuffed and wearing a collar and leash proved surprisingly arousing, so she filed it away for future reference and returned her attention to jerking him off, painfully slow. He writhed under her and she ground herself against his tailbone, making a noise of pleasant surprise when he clenched his arse in a way that put delicious pressure on her clit. "Been in this position before, huh?" she said, sliding her thumb over the head of his cock lazily. "Trick like that, you don't just make up on the spot. So how many women have kicked your ass like this before, William?"

"Not many," he whispered.

She was lying over him now, hips still pushing rhythmically into his, breasts pressing into his naked back. _Too many layers._ She leaned back upwards just long enough to tug up her top and bra, undoing the lingerie clasp and baring her chest to his skin. Her nipples skimmed his cold flesh, where welts and scrapes could soon decorate the skin.

 

Slowly, they ended up shifting onto their sides, Buffy still playing leisurely with Spike's cock. Even with the change in position, he'd kept his wrists up where she'd put them. The sight of it made her grin. It was time.

 

She reached for his discarded T-shirt and looped it around his head as a makeshift blindfold. When he started to speak, she smacked his head again, tugging the knot unnecessarily tight. He got the message, but she could tell that he was still smiling in that infuriating way; she could hear him laughing under his breath. Her eyes narrowed for a moment; then an idea came to her and she stood up, smirking, so she could wriggle her panties out from under her skirt. Crouching over him again, she balled them up in one hand and pushed them into his mouth, grinning when he choked in surprise; he didn't need the oxygen, but he hadn't been expecting that, Reaching for his undone belt, she tugged at the buckle and pulled it free from his jeans in one smooth movement.

 

Spike tensed as the belt was tugged from around his waist. Buffy calmly rearranged him so he was facedown again, head turned carefully to one side. His wrists had drifted apart a few inches, so she placed them firmly back to an overlapping position, as if they'd been cuffed together. _"Stay,"_ she repeated firmly. Stepping back to survey her work, she paused for a moment, then pulled off her own top completely and used it to roughly bind his ankles. (After shrugging the straps off of her shoulders, she also tugged off her bra and thew it to one side, not seeing any immediate use for it.) She could hear him breathing heavily through the makeshift gag, and she considered again whether this might be a nervous habit for vampires who'd lived this long: under duress, they very often started to flash back to human instincts such as breathing. Especially breathing. It was as if they found it hard to remember that they didn't need to breathe. So for a moment, Buffy stood silently, watching the muscles in Spike's back shifting under his marred skin as he inhaled and exhaled almost like a living human being.

 

But it was time now. He'd asked for it, and here it came. She picked up the belt, looped one end around her hand, and clutched the buckle. The metal was cold against her palm, the leather firm and smooth. With a deep breath, she steadied herself, drew back, and flung a blow at the creature beneath her.

 

The first lash drew a hiss, which was quickly answered with a sharper snap straight on top of the first. Then she let the tip of the belt trail softly down to the small of his back, making him shiver, before cracking another blow, then another, working her way up to a rapid-fire rhythm that sent him writhing. She noted with pleasure that he was managing to keep his hands in place, and she had half a mind to untie his ankles to see if he could pull off the same trick down there, but this - right now - this was too exhilarating to stop. Blood was starting to ooze from the angry welts on Spike's back, and the muscles underneath were clenching beautifully with the effort of keeping his limbs in position as directed despite the insufficiently immobilising restraints. Breathing hard, she cast the belt to the floor and dropped to her knees, straddling her whipping boy, rubbing her hands harshly over his wounds, smearing blood in two stripes up towards his shoulders. It looked so beautiful: Spike shuddering beneath her, the crimson blood against his stark white skin, cold as ice and smooth as silk. She bent down, a curtain of blonde hair falling over her face and tickling that cold flesh as she sucked at his wounds. He gasped in surprise, but Buffy ignored him. He could be startled later; she was busy now, kissing and licking her way across her handiwork, digging her nails into his shoulders and raking them down his sides to the waistband of his undone jeans. Rearing back, she tugged the jeans and boxers down to Spike's knees, then reached out for the belt again and climbed to her feet.

 

This time, it was the buckle end she sent flying.

 

Spike jerked at the first impact, back arching, groaning in pain. Buffy let it sink in for a moment before cracking another blow on top of the first, relishing the higher-pitched noise he made this time, then letting loose and going for a full-on, merciless flogging. It occurred to her vaguely that it was a good thing she'd only ever tried this on a vamp, because between Slayer-strength and the pent-up sexual energy that was going into this, she'd probably end up crippling anyone human. (Unless that human was a slayer too - an image of Faith in this position flashed into her head briefly, and she pushed it aside, face burning. This thing with Spike was confusing enough; she didn't need to drag _that_ back up again.)

 

"Slayer - "

 

The word was muffled; Spike was still gagged by her lacy underwear, but he was making a valiant effort to speak. "Please - love - "

 

She threw down the belt and crouched over him, winding her fingers in his hair and tugging the panties from his mouth. "What?" she breathed into his ear. "What do you want now? This isn't enough?"

 

He groaned, and shifted underneath her. Looking down, she saw him pushing his hips into the ground desperately. "You want me to do something about that, huh? At least you waited. I told you not to come until I called you." He twisted his head and looked up at her as best he could, eyes glittering in a mixture of desire and resentment that made her want to both whip him harder and fuck his brains out. Possibly at the same time.

 

No. Not again. She wasn't going to give that fucker the satisfaction.

 

Instead, she grabbed his shoulder and flipped him onto his back, smirking when he cried out in pain from the sudden pressure on his new, raw wounds. She was pulling up her skirt when he finally moved his hands away from their imaginary handcuffs, beginning to reach them down towards the small of his back; a quick punch to the jaw stopped him moving, but he forced out, "Slayer - I'm - I'm lying on the belt buckle."

 

Huh. She looked down. Sure enough, the end of the belt was just visible coming out from under his ribs where she'd last thrown it down. She shrugged, positioning herself over his cock, and his eyes rolled back. "So you want me to move, then?" she asked, deadpan, grinding against him, her clit sliding up his shaft. He shuddered and shook his head, reaching for her waist, one hand sliding up towards her bare breast. "Did I say you could move your - " She gasped as he pinched her nipple, the reprimand forgotten, digging her nails into his hips and arching her back. So much for binding his hands; it seemed that having them free was more fun.

 

Not wanting to give him too much freedom, however, she shifted her weight, trapping his cock between his belly and her lips and _grinding_. He wouldn't get to fuck her this time. He had to remember his place, and so did she. This man - this _thing -_ was beneath her in every way, and if she was using him, she'd better make it fucking clear.

 

Not that he wasn't enjoying it. "You like being my whipping boy, don't you?" she hissed. "My filthy, good-for-nothing fuck toy?" He whimpered. "Because that's all you'll ever be, Spike. You're not a person. You're not a man." She smacked him in the mouth before he could make another sound, but her next words caught in her throat as he raked a hand down her back and _clenched_ at her skin, making her whimper in pain. She thrust back furiously, pushing his beaten ass into the cold ground, cunt sliding over his rock-hard cock, never coming close enough to the head to let him slip inside. She shuddered in pleasure, both at the delicious pressure on her clit and at the beautiful mixture of pain and ecstasy on Spike's face.

 

When she came, she clutched at the cold white muscle of his sides, nails tearing livid stripes over his waist. She closed her eyes and threw her head back, riding out the waves of her climax without looking at the man beneath her. "Good boy," she gasped, trailing her fingers down to twist through his pubic hair as she climbed off. Spike looked up at her pleadingly, his erection still jutting desperately upwards, but she averted her eyes. He clearly hadn't learned his lesson if he expected her to do something about it. Still shaky from the afterglow, she got to her feet, pulling the belt out from underneath Spike and ignoring his wince as the buckle dragged once more across the skin of his back, crossing the raised welts and the nasty scrapes. He was starting to push himself up onto his elbows, still looking at her imploringly. Sighing in exasperation, she put one foot on his sternum and pushed him back down, winding the belt through her hands.

 

"I don't think you understand yet, Spike," she said, trailing her foot from his chest down to his still-rigid cock. "This is not for you." She pushed some of her weight onto him, pinning his shaft to his abdomen, smiling when he winced. "This is _mine_." At last she met his gaze, eyes boring into his. Her toes twitched and the vampire convulsed beneath her, making her smile. _I did that. I marked him. He's mine._ Twisted pride rose in her chest.

Buffy rubbed her foot lazily back and forth, enjoying the way it made him shudder. When his hands drifted down to touch himself, she snapped the belt threateningly and shook her head at him, eyes narrowing, foot stilling for a moment. Obediently, he returned to his previous position once more, arms above his head, crossed over as if bound at the wrist. She glared at him.

 

"Say it," she ordered.

 

"Say what?"

 

"You're mine." She pushed her weight down, making him wince and writhe.

 

"Always," he gasped. "I'm yours."

 

"Good."

 

Abruptly, she stepped off him, threw down the belt, tugged her skirt back down, grabbed the rest of her discarded clothes and left him there.


End file.
